Page 17 of Seduced By the Mafia Don

"When did you first begin drawing?" he asks, again with minimal lip movement.

"When I was a kid."

"With your father? Your mother?"

"My dad abandoned us," I reply stiffly, barely registering my voice. The sound of the 4B pencil shading his suit's texture suffices. Technically, this detailing could wait for the refinement stage, but I'm deliberately postponing work on his face... extending our time together.

It's almost as if I crave his company.

"I'm truly sorry to hear that."

"My mom consistently encouraged my art. She juggled two jobs yet somehow always found the money for new supplies. Pencils came first, because... Well..."

"Well?" he prompts, his tone suggesting genuine interest, even eagerness for me to continue. I simultaneously hate and adore his curiosity about me.

"They were more affordable," I explain. "Paint came with a higher price tag, so pencils became my medium. An entire universe of pencils. Of gradients. Of discovering light through precise pressure and angles. I sketched my mom hundreds of times. Even when?—"

I abruptly stop. I have to restrain myself. I nearly snap my pencil to release the mounting tension. I hadn't anticipated losing my composure, but the contrast between his authentic self and his mob persona is maddening.

Focus on the money. Think of Mom. Two conflicting impulses surge through me.

"When?" he presses.

"Are you a parrot?"

"Are you a parrot?" he counters with a smirk that somehow, even now, elicits a smile from me.

Abandoning his jacket, I shift my pencil to his face, outlining its profile and capturing that smirk, wondering whether he'll come out looking mocking, encouraging, or somewhere between.

"We don’t have to talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable," he offers.

"How magnanimous of you."

"Are you always this prickly?"

"Are you always this... you?" I retort.

"Unfortunately, some might say yes, I am," he admits.

"Just another prestigious hedge fund manager."

He leans forward slightly. The gesture lacking menace. Inexplicably, I feel safe in his presence. I only asked Gianna to meet us here solely to prevent opportunities for him to kiss me, touch me, make my body tingle and ache with his physical strength and imposing stature. Am I delusional to believe he would even want that?

"Is something on your mind?"

"What could I possibly want to say? I already said silence is better for the portrait, anyway.”

He leans back. His lips no longer form that smirk, yet that's how they materialize in my sketch as I transition to heavy gradients for his penetrating eyes and lighter strokes for his hair. We proceed in tense silence for ten excruciating minutes. I nearly want to scream simply to shatter it.

He watches me calculatingly, deciphering my thoughts.

"What happened to your mother?" he asks.

If the question weren't so painful, I might appreciate his breaking the silence.

"Excuse me?"

“You said you painted portraits of your mother... until—and then expressed anger toward my profession as a hedge fund manager."

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